GUT 

JAN  22  1914 

=nii  = 


txU  iBunter 


COPYRIGHT.    JUNE.    1013.    BY 

DIXIE  HUNTER   LA  ZANSKY 

OAKLAND.  CAL  .    U.  8.  A. 


PUBLISHED.    JUNE   25.    1913 


THE  Rix  PRESS 
SOUTH  BERKELEY.  CALIFORNIA 


Irtrorrrt  fyt  Htnrs 

If  in  an  idle  moment  you  should  look. 
Upon  some  page  of  this — my  little  book; 

I'm  sure,  dear  one,  your  keen  thought  will  divine, 
The  "love"  that's  written  plainly  'neath  each  line. 

Each  simple  verse  in  color  dark  or  bright 

May  tell  a  little  story — as  I  write, 
But  'tween  each  line  in  "white"  I  send  to-day, 

My  "love" — for  white  will  never  fade  away. 


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I've  a  favorite  heroine,  just  as  you, 

Though  she's  not  like  your  Joan  of  Arc; 

But  she's  just  as  noble,  as  brave  and  as  true, 
Tho'  she's  never  made  a  mark. 

I  mean,  that  the  world  doesn't  ring  with  praise. 

Of  her  deeds,  tho'  many  she's  done ;  • 
She  has  never  adopted  a  "fad"  or  a  craze. 

Nor  social  distinction  has  won. 

But  she's  patched  little  trousers  and  darned  little  clothes. 

And  been  up  at  her  work,  with  the  sun; 
And  she's  kissed  all  the  "hurt"  from  a  scratched  little  nose. 

Never  once  has  her  heart-ache,  spoiled  fun. 

And  many  a  time  when  the  "ends"  wouldn't  meet, 
Tho'  she  suffered,  she  spread  cheer  the  while; 

9 

She's  run  errands  of  mercy  with  sore,  tired  feet, 
And  with  always  that  beautiful  smile. 

She  has  many  deep  wrinkles  and  soft  wavy  hair, 
And  her  shoulders  droop  wearily,  too; 

But  to  me  there  is  nowhere  a  face  more  fair. 
There  was  never  a  heart  more  true. 

ID 

Her  name  is  just — "Mary" — as  plain  as  can  be. 

History's  pages  it  never  will  grace; 
But  I'd  give,  ah,  so  much,  if  once  more  I  could  see, 

The  smile  on  my  "heroine's"  face. 


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| 

Had  I  the  power  to  give  all  glorious  things, 

There's  none  I'd  find  half  rare  enough  for  thee; 
But  Love,  'tis  said,  is  grandest  gift  of  all 

In  all  this  wondrous  world,  o'er  all  the  sea, 
«6 

And  even  though  a  man  holds  riches  dear, 

Strives  hard  to  gain,  possess  be  his  one  aim, 
Within  his  heart  must  be  a  spot  most  drear 

If  he  loves  none,  nor  none's  whole  love  can  claim. 
For  Love  can  make  the  humblest  seat  a  throne; 

Without  it,  palaces  be  most  dull  and  dark; 
It  wends  its  way  to  places  all  unknown. 

And  sets  the  world  a-going  with  its  spark. 
Love  makes  my  heaven  when  I  have  thee,  my  own. 

But  one? moment  I  may  hold  thee  to  my  breast; 
My  hell  wakes,  when  within  my  dreams,  I  all  alone, 

See  in  thy  arms  another  claim  her  rest. 
Dear  heart,  how  drear,  how  dark  the  world  to  me. 

Should  I  become  unloved,  forgotten,  dead  to  thee. 


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Sing  on  little  bird,  sing  on, 

From  the  branch  in  that  gnarled  old  tree, 

For  every  sweet  note, 

From  your  swelling  throat. 
Brings  a  lesson,  long  needed,  to  me. 

Dear  little  feathered  fellow, 

I  am  most  ashamed  to  say, 
I  was  cross  and  weary. 
The  whole  world  seemed  dreary, 

Till  I  heard  your  song  so  gay. 

As  I  gloomily  gazed  from  my  window, 
At  the  softly-falling  rain, 

I  glanced  at  the  tree. 

And  you  sang  down  to  me. 
And  my  heart  felt  a  throb  of  pain. 

Ah,  why  should  your  song,  little  robin, 
From  the  gnarled  branch,  cause  me  pain? 

Is  it  just  because  you, 

Tho'no  small,  are  true  blue. 
And  have  courage  to  sing  in  the  rain? 

While  I,  like  a  thankless  creature. 
When  the  sun  was  hidden  from  view, 

Sat  down  in  the  gloom. 

My  whole  soul  out  of  tune, 
Till  I  learned  the  sweet  lesson  from  you. 

So  sing,  little  bird,  sing  on. 
Every  note  so  tender  and  true. 

Only  now,  little  friend, 

All  my  gloom's  at  an  end. 
And  I'll  join  in  the  chorus,  with  you. 


3] ust  fttnkr  iflr  Strong 

When  sorrows  gather  round,  when  hope  has  fled, 

When  dull  and  drear  each  day— each  breath  a  sigh, 
Why  is  it  that  when  every  joy  seems  dead, 

Each  murmurs — "Oh,  that  I  had  wings  to  fly?" 
To  fly  away  from  sorrows  and  from  pains, 

To  go  to  lands  where  only  joys  are  known, 
Where  birds  from  morn  till  night  sing  sweet  refrains. 

And  Peace  smiles  ever  brightly  from  his  throne. 
Yet  how  much  nobler,  grander  far  'twould  be. 

Should  each  stand  firm  beneath  his  weight  of  woe, 
And  say— "Dear  God,  I  leave  it  all  to  thee, 

Tho'  weak  I  seem,  I  do  not  ask  to  go. 
To  fly  and  leave  my  sorrow  and  my  pain, 

Tho'  hope  has  vanished — troubles  ever  nigh, 
I'll  ask,  "0  God,  send  strength  and  I'll  remain. 

Just  make  me  strong,  and  I'll  not  wish  to  fly." 


Each  one  of  us  some  secret  sorrow  keeps, 

And  so  when  to  our  tongues  some  harsh  word  leaps, 

Let  us  remember  that  a  kind  word  spoken, 

^s 

May  soothe  a  tired  soul  or  heart  that's  broken. 


An 


A  beautiful,  fragrant  wild  sweet-pea, 
Was  tossing  so  graceful  and  gay 

And  scenting  the  air  around  her 
In  a  most  inviting  way. 

And  near,  in  the  earth  beside  her, 
^> 

A  tiny  young  bit  of  a  tree 

Was  struggling  so  hard  to  grow  skyward, 
Its  efforts  one  almost  could  see. 

And  I,  in  a  way  quite  human, 

Sat  down  near  the  flower,  to  rest. 

And  inhaled  the  delicate  fragrance. 
And  its  petals  I  softly  caressed. 

I  cast  scarcely  a  glance  at  the  sapling. 
So  patiently  looking  above. 

For  the  flower  so  dainty  and  fragrant, 
Gaimed  all  admiration  and  love. 

Long  after  that  beautiful  spring  day. 

With  a  heart-ache  and  sore  lagging  feet, 
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I  again  took  my  way  to  that  meadow, 

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For  relief  from  the  sweltering  heat. 


On  the  fence  where  the  wild  fragrant  flower, 
Had  danced  and  waved  in  the  breeze, 

Were  matted  and  twisted  some  dried  up  stalks, 
And  around  lay  withered  leaves. 


But  near  where  the  poor  little  sapling, 

Had  struggled  so  bravely  to  rise, 
Stood  a  hardy  oak,  with  wide  spreading  limbs, 

And  it  looked  so  serene  and  so  wise. 

As  against  it  I  rested  in  comfort, 

So  cool  in  its  generous  shade, 
From  its  heart,  came  a  message  so  soothing. 

And  I  thought  of  mistakes  I  had  made. 

Thinking  only  the  daintily-fragrant, 
Brightly  colored,  could  beautiful  be; 

How  great  and  how  noble  the  comforting  heart 
That  lived  in  that  mighty  oak  tree  I 


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Sometimes  my  heart,  dear,  seems  so  heavy, 
I  feel  so  lone  —  so  drear  to-day, 

Why  don't  you  come  to  cheer  me,  darling? 
Come,  drive  my  gloomy  thoughts  away. 


I  sit  within  my  lonely  chamber, 
Outside  it  rains — the  wind  a  gale 

Blows,  sometimes  shrieking  as  in  anguish. 
Then  dies  away — a  mournful  wail. 


I  sit  and  dream  of  you,  my  darling. 
Your  face  in  memory's  frame  I  see. 

But,  ah!     Your  smiles,  dear,  are  for  others. 
You  have  no  time  to  think  of  me. 

And  yet,  it  seems  to  me  unkind,  dear. 
That  God  should  let  me  love  you  so, 

When  I  may  never  have  you,  dearest, 
For  all  my  own,  ah!  me,  such  woe. 

Tis  quiet  now,  the  rain  is  ceasing. 

The  sun  peeps  out — the  clouds  depart, 

The  storm  without  is  calmed,  oh!    why,  dear. 
Must  storms   still   rage  within  my  heart. 


Srauttful  80s* 


In  my  garden  blooms  a  beautiful  rose, 

So  fragrant,  so  fair  to  see, 
I  am  sure  no  lovelier  flower  grows. 

And  it  blossoms  alone,  for  me. 

I  water  it — tend  it  with  loving  care. 

My  love  for  it  no  one  knows, 
Its  fragrance  with  no  one  else  I  share, 

My  beautiful,  beautiful  rose. 

I  go  in  the  morn  to  gaze  at  my  flower. 

The  dews  in  its  heart  repose, 
A  sunbeam  caressingly  steals  in  its  bower. 

And  kisses  my  glorious  rose. 

But  I  know  that  sometime  its  petals  must  fall. 

My  pretty  rose— dead  will  be, 
I  will  find  it  gone,  I  may  cry  and  call, 

My  rose  no  more  I  shall  see. 

And  think  you  I'll  scatter  its  poor,  dead  leaves. 

To  the  winds — forget  my  flower? 
Dear,  sweet,  fragrant  rose,  who  e'er  could  believe, 

I'd  forget  you  in  one  short  hour? 

Sweet  petals  I'll  lift  them  one  by  one, 

Though  I  know  my  heart  will  pain; 
Thy  beauty  dear  rose,  will  be  faded  and  gone. 

But  thy  perfume  will  still  remain. 


A  heavy  darksome  cloud, 

The  world  is  grey; 
No  ray  of  light,  to  cheer 

The  lonely  day. 

A  flood  of  gold  the  hills 

Doth  now  enfold; 
Earth's  beauties  now,  have  grown 

A  thousand  fold. 

Stern  duties  call  to  us. 

To  quit  the  throng 
On  idle  pleasure  bent. 

To  struggle  on. 

We  lend  our  ear,  but  go 

With  halting  feet. 
The  road  seems  rough;   to  stay 

Awhile  were  sweet. 

As  earth  gains  beauty,  both 

From  sun  and  rain, 
Our  lives  to  grow,  must  know 

Both  joy  and  pain. 

If  in  our  toiling  we 

Must  pause  awhile. 
Let's  light  some  straggler's  way, 

With  sunny  smile. 


Dear  hills  you  are  grandly  beautiful, 

Standing  outlined  'gainst  the  blue; 
Always  there,  faithful  and  dutiful, 

What  dwells  in  the  heart  of  you? 

Were  the  beautiful  curves  of  your  bosom, 
Placed  there  from  a  deep  swelling  sigh? 

When  the  clouds  hang  so  low, — are  you  lonesome, 
Is  it  pride  makes  your  peaks  stand  so  high? 

Just  what  do  you  feel,  when  the  trees  sway 
And  toss,  in  the  wind  and  the  rain? 

They  look,  dear  old  hills,  in  a  strange  way. 
Like  great  arms  flung  out  wildly  in  pain. 

When  the  streams  start,  so  madly  rushing 
Down  your  sides,  taking  rocks  as  they  go. 

The  waters  look  dark,  like  blood  gushing 
From  a  wound,  dear  old  hills,  is  it  so? 

And  is  it  a  wound— does  it  hurt  you. 

When  the  rocks  are  torn  out  of  your  breast? 

When  men  dig  and  pierce  your  poor  heart  through, 
Does't  grieve  you,  that  they  mar  your  rest? 

And  dear  hills,  the  beautiful  flowers. 

That  bloom  on  your  breast  in  the  spring, 

All  fragrant  from  sunshine  and  showers. 
Do  they  soothe  you,  and  happiness  bring? 


But  yes — for  are  they  not  your  treasures, 
Little  children,  that  grew  in  your  heart? 

They  must  fill  with  unending  pleasures, 
The  great  life,  of  which  they  are  a  part. 

I  love  you,  dear  hills,  and  I'm  hoping 
On  your  great,  tender  bosom  to  lay; 

Just  where  your  dear  breast's  softly  sloping; 
Will  you  tell  me  your  secrets  some  day? 


9unlinltt  attfo 

Sunlight  and  shadow,  my  darling, 

Enfold  me  in  mists  every  day; 
Sunlight  when  you're  with  me,  my  sweetheart. 

Deep  shadows  when  you  are  away. 

I  long  with  a  longing  that's  anguish, 
For  a  glance  of  eyes,  tender  and  true; 

Ah,  come  dearest  one,  and  caress  me, 
I'm  hungry,  dear,  starving  for  you! 

I 

Come,  fold  me  in  arms  strong  and  restful, 
Let  my  weary  head  lay  on  your  breast; 

Press  your  lips  soft  and  warm,  to  my  own,  dear, 
Ah,  beloved,  that  is  sweetest  and  best. 

Hold  me  fast,  when  I'm  losing  my  way,  dear. 
In  the  dazzling  light  that  you  bring; 

With  your  kiss  you  have  wakened  my  soul,  sweet. 
And  have  made  my  sad  heart  wildly  sing. 

Come,  hurry,  beloved,  lest  the  shadow* 

That  shroud  me,   when  you  are  not  here, 

Cast  me  down  to  the  depths  of  despair,  love, 
Let  the  sunshine  remain  ever  near. 

Sunlight  and  shadows,  my  darling. 

Enfold  me  in  mists  every  day; 
Sunlight  when  you're  with  me,  beloved, 

Deep  shadows  when  you  are  away. 


Tis  said  a  love  thought  travels, 


Believe  it; 
I  send  one  every  night,  dear, 

Receive  it 
How  do  I  send  it,  dear  one, 

You  would  know? 
Believe  me,  'tis  great  joy  to 

Bid  it  go. 
Tis  wafted,  dear,  to  you  on 

Gentle  breeze, 
Sometimes  from  flowers,  sometimes 

From  the  trees. 

6 

If  nights  are  dark,  and  winter 

Winds  do  blow, 
I  bid  them  take  my  message 

As  they  go. 
When  seasons  change,  winter  has 

Passed  away, 
When  comes   the  spring,  with  soft  and 

Balmy  day; 
Strolling,  at  dark,  'mid  flowers  I 

Whisper  this— 
"Take  on  your  perfumed  breath,  my 

Sweetest  kiss." 


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No  matter,  dear,  how  long  the  day  has  been 

\j  ^V 

With  all  its  smiles  or  tears — its  joys  or  sighs, 
If  at  the  twilight  hour,  one  thought  serene 
Of  you,  doth  flash  across  my  lonely  skies. 

To  feel — to  know  that  you  are  safe  and  well. 
And  have  perhaps  some  kindly  thought  of  me. 

Is  worth  to  me — ah  more  than  tongue  can  tell, 
More,  more  than  all  things  else  can  ever  be. 

To  know  we'er  living  on  the  same  old  earth, 
Above  us,  dear,  the  same  blue  sky,  same  moon. 

And  every  thing,  of  great  or  lesser  worth, 

And  sometimes,  too,  an  hour  that  flies  too  soon. 

r> 

And  tho'  beloved  I  cannot  think  to  count 

So  very  much  to  you — in  busy  hour; 
Sometimes  I  would  be  a  refreshing  fount, 

Or  simply  bloom  within  your  heart,  a  flower. 
V.  <5 

Not  bright,  nor  beautiful,  your  heart  to  sway. 
But  simply  sweet;  a  violet  in  the  bower. 

To  lend  some  touch  of  sweetness  to  your  day, 
To  cheer  you  with  my  bloom  in  some  lone  hour. 

2 

I'll  bloom  and  bloom  thro'  bitterness  or  strife; 

I'll  ne'er  desert  you  in  a  darksome  hour; 
I'll  try  to  add  some  sweetness  to  your  life 

In  just  that  way — a  humble  little  flower. 

And  tho'  some  day  you'll  pluck  me  from  the  spot 
So  small  I've  tried  with  all  my  soul  to  fill; 

\.  Vtt 

Crush  me  you  may — but  kill  me  quite  cannot; 
Some  subtle  scent  of  love  will  linger  still. 

i  I 


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And  now  we'll  close  the  pages,  little  book, 

Some  friend,  perhaps  will  cast  a  passing  look; 

If  he  from  any  thought  should  pleasure  gain, 

My  humble  thoughts  expressed  have  not  been  vain. 


YB   I  1 997 


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